


Une Histoire

by nofaceghoul



Series: refurbished vintage hetalia [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Relationships, FACE Family, Historical References, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 16:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15844938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofaceghoul/pseuds/nofaceghoul
Summary: England and France have a long and complicated history full of bloodshed and violence mended by fragile pacts and treaties. This is their story, and how their relationship changes through time.(it's been so long since i've posted something?? i forgot how to do summaries and also tag shit omg)





	Une Histoire

**Author's Note:**

> basically i originally wrote this thing in 2013 and stumbled upon it on an old flashdrive the other day. it was one of the last hetalia fics i wrote so i figured, why not fix it up and post it?
> 
> so here it is. the 2018-edit

Arthur had loved him in the beginning. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t love him now, no…he just…well, Francis had accepted that Arthur was a bit eccentric in the way he showed it.

Though he hadn’t been that way in the beginning. No, Francis thought. Looking back on it, the Brit had been as open and easy with him as he was with _him_ now. In the beginning of their marriage, that is. Everyone knew that before that, Francis and Arthur’s relationship had been caustic at best.

Perhaps it would be best to start there, at the very beginning.

Francis and Arthur had first met when they were both very young. Young for what they were that is, though to most they must have truly been much older. It was the time of William the Conqueror, and Francis had come over to the small island nation just across the channel to meet with his new charge, the country of England. Francis had fanciful ideas that taking care of the boy would be fun. _Angleterre_ , Francis thought. _I wonder how he will be? I hope he's cute._ He rested his chin in his palm, gazing out across the water as the ship carried him closer to his new little brother. Francis smiled to himself. Yes, a sweet little brother that looked up to him and clung to him for protection would be so cute. He couldn’t wait to be endeared to the little one.

He had been so, so wrong.

Truly Francis was taken aback and didn’t quite know what to do with himself at first. He’d built up this image of his sweet little Angleterre in his head on the trip over, only to be confronted with a pale angry boy with a shock of blonde hair and a thin bird chest. Arthur was practically half feral when Francis came across him, barefoot with gnashing teeth, bow drawn at what he took to be an intruder. It didn’t take much force to quell that misunderstanding, and once the young boy realized he was outmatched in manpower and physical strength he settled down.

Francis thought that would be the end of that, and that they would surely quickly get along. Arthur hated him.

“Is this not a wonderful meal?” Francis gestured at the steaming soup that had been placed in front of him before resting his head on his folded hands, peering expectantly across the long empty table at Arthur. The boy was already small for his age, but he looked even smaller and out of place in this lavish room. He’d refused to wear anything that Francis had tailored for him, so instead he just sat there in his plain, drab green cloak and cotton tunic.

The first few times Francis had arranged these meals Arthur would refuse to eat, but he’d long since abandoned that pretense. “You won’t be my guest here for long,” the boy quipped, bringing his spoon to his lips. 

Francis blinked in surprise before laughing. “’Your guest’? How sweet. You intend to kick me out? That’s not very hospitable of you, _mon petit chou_.” Steam licked at his face as he lazily stirred his spoon through his creamy soup, swirling potatoes and leafy bits that he was pretty sure were just for presentation. “I have to say, you’ve been so very rude to me since I’ve arrived! To refuse to even sit in the same room as me unless we dine…it hurts my heart.” Francis pouted. “All of this is for you, you know. And you hardly seem appreciative.” Arthur muttered something poisonously. “What was that, peach?”

“I _said_ I never asked for any of this!” Arthur shouted suddenly, throwing his spoon. “I never asked you frogs to hop over here and occupy my land! _My_ land! _My_ country! Holding me hostage…imposing your ‘king’…your stupid language and your stupid clothes…I want nothing to do with it!”

“…That really wasn’t cute.” Francis sighed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “I think I’ve lost my appetite. Someone come and deal with this, would you _sil-vous plaît_?” A servant rushed over to take the hardly touched soup away. “And take Arthur’s as well. I don't think we'll be moving on to the next course, he seems done since he thinks throwing his utensil was appropriate. You’re quite done aren’t you, Arthur?”

“I am not some toy that you can play with and then set aside the minute things don’t go your way!” Arthur tossed his bowl for good measure, soup splashing out of the clattering bowl all over the table and distressing the servants who in the wake of this fight didn’t know what to do. Arthur’s little hands clenched into fists at his sides. “One day I’m going to become a strong nation. A powerful nation, and I’m going to overthrow this occupation and you’re going to wish you’d never found me. You’ll fear the whisper of my name.” He glared up at Francis with determined green eyes, wearing an expression surprisingly vicious for one who appeared so young. Francis only imagined how this must seem to his all too human servants, sidling nervously towards the edges of the room.

The French nation just chuckled, a soft laugh that spoke volumes as his eyes passed over the strong-willed young boy across from him. Silly dreams from a silly boy. Francis didn’t even entertain the thought.

And then the day came when Arthur’s talk became reality. One day out of the blue, at least that’s how it seemed to the Frenchman, Arthur was his own nation. A very powerful nation. And he still hated Francis.

Francis loved him.

Francis had loved him since they were both young, held an affection for the boy who was so vindictive and quick to anger. Some would say his love was despite the Brit’s abrasive nature, but that was in actuality just part of the delicious cocktail that attracted the Frenchman to him. And when he was alone, when he thought no one was looking, Arthur was such a quietly introspective boy who loved finding the small beauty in life, something that Francis, a self-proclaimed purveyor of beauty, could appreciate. He was a boy who always read with a small contented smile on his face, happily lost in knowledge or fiction. Francis loved everything about Arthur. As the years passed and with the passing of William the Conqueror also came the passing of France’s impressive military prowess, as it were, for a long time. With this passage of time, both he and England grew.

Arthur grew into a wiry young man who had a sort of restless quality about him, like a tiger pacing in a cage. He sailed often, collecting colonies like trading cards, and was even the captain of his own ship for a time. Green eyes were as bright and inquisitive and wild as when he had been a boy. He still hated Francis.

Francis had grown into a handsome man with an artful charm and a carefree attitude that showed with his easy laugh. He was loved at parties, beloved by all. He learned to laugh at insults directed at him, learned how to command a room and manipulate the energy of it. Everyone loved him, but no one loved him. He loved everyone, but he really only loved Arthur.

The French nation did antagonize the Brit, just as the Brit antagonized him. Because though Francis loved Arthur, he never dared hope to see his feelings be reciprocated. And why should they be? Though he freely gave his love to many, there had never been a single person who had ever truly loved Francis back. Lasting relationships between countries were a rare and fickle thing, and having anything more than a one night stand with a regular human could be too much to bear. Why should anything change for him now, with Arthur? No, he had never expected anything from the prickly British nation. Arthur, who was so intent on hating Francis.

"Hatred is but the other side of love," he would tease Arthur when the other would shout how much he despised him. And though he said it mostly to pull a reaction, it was something Francis believed. Hatred is but the other side of love, as they are both intensely passionate feelings, and so Francis had decided that if he couldn’t have one then he would have the other. When it came down to it, he would make sure he was on Arthur’s mind. And so it continued that way for centuries, but then there came a time when something seemed to shift in their endlessly antagonistic dynamic. Looking back on it, Francis thought the catalyst had been Jeanne.

It was after she had been burned. Francis could still smell the smoke, thick black plumes of it coating his throat and choking him. His eyes burned too, and when the tears started to roll down his cheeks he blamed it on the smoking pyre. It was true, in a way.

Arthur was there.

He stood there watching Francis cry curiously, as though the emotion of anguish was foreign to him. Francis had screamed at him then, suddenly infuriated at his observer. Like a silent obelisk here to judge him. He’d lost again, and now came his jury, judgment, and executioner. Francis was tired of it all. Sick of this formula playing out again and again.

“Are you happy?!” he yelled hoarsely through his tears, voice wrecked raw. It was the voice of a broken man. You weren’t supposed to love humans. It was an unspoken rule, a taboo of nations. Don’t love them. But how could the Country of Love dictate his own heart? “You’ve won! You’ve beaten me time and again, are you finally satisfied?!”

Arthur flinched. “I never meant for this to happen.”

Francis laughed, though there was no mirth behind the sound. “Of course you did, Arthur. You wanted all of this to happen. You,” he lifted an accusing finger, pointing at the Brit with a trembling hand, “ _made_ all of this happen. What are you trying to prove with all of this fighting, Arthur? That you’re better than me? That you’re better than William?” Arthur flinched slightly at the name. Francis scoffed. “William is dead, Arthur. He doesn’t care.” He finished with a trace of bitterness. William was dead. Jeanne was dead, taken from this world too soon and by what, a twisted God that she had placed her blind trusting faith in? A cruel, senseless God that burned her like a child with a magnifying glass to an ant.

At last, Arthur cast his eyes to the ground. “What do _any_ of us try to prove with war?” he muttered. He sighed, running a hand through blonde hair sweaty from the heat of the nearby blaze. “Look, I’m…” he paused, chewed at his lower lip for a second. It was a bad habit he’d developed, Francis had noticed. “I didn’t know what they would do to her.” 

“Don’t,” Francis said sharply. “Don’t say her name. Don't even dare talk about her. She was better than you.” The flame that burned in him in that moment fizzled out almost immediately and the Frenchman sagged again, hunched, defeated, and after a moment of hesitation, a second of spontaneous thought, Arthur pulled him to his chest. No longer thin and frail, but solid and warm. For a second Francis couldn’t even register it. The thought that Arthur would surely plunge a knife into his back flitted into his head for a second, and then he discarded it, hugging the Brit back fiercely. 

“I’m sorry.”

Francis was crying again.

After that, their relationship had been strange. They had gone to war, yes. They fought with words as often as they did with swords and guns, though sex became a new battlefield to conquer. After awhile, physical blows came less, fights were fought more often with words but these altercations nearly always came to an end in someone’s bed.

One night left Arthur crying.

“ _Mon cher_ , what is it?” Francis had been alarmed; usually Arthur would just leave without a word or kick Francis out, depending on whose bed they were in, but on this night the Brit had curled in on himself and started quietly sobbing. “What is wrong?”

“N-Nothing. I’m absolutely perfect,” Arthur muttered between trembling lips. “Don’t _touch_ me.” He pulled away violently when the other reached for him.

Francis frowned. “Arthur…”

“Don’t say my name! Don’t say it like that!” Arthur snapped, dissolving into tears again. He always tried so hard not to. “D-Don’t say it…like…y-you care…” He was trying so hard to be mad, to start another fight. It was easier when they fought.

Francis’ heart dropped into his stomach. “How could you think that I don’t care?” His entire life had been spent caring about Arthur, every second since he had seen the small boy in his dark green cloak in their first meeting all those years ago.

Arthur turned to looked at him then, eyes red-rimmed and glistening with tears, liquid seeming to pour out of his face. It was a cuter look when he was little, the Frenchman would admit. The Brit was not a pretty crier. “How could you possibly? _Look_ at me.” Francis didn’t understand. In his mind Arthur might as well have been an angel that hung the stars and he was here in Francis’ bed, an angel who held his books like they were precious, fragile things, who always had a soft smile as he read, an angel of fog and softly drizzling rain and warm tea on cold mornings. “I’m just…so plain. And I know I am, don’t you dare protest. And I've treated you terribly, I...it's so _hard_. I’ve done such horrible things, unforgivable things…” Arthur groaned at that, curling into himself more and putting his hands over his face. A shudder ran through him from the effort of trying not to cry. “And you’re just so beautiful. It’s not fair. It doesn’t make sense.”

It was said so softly, barely a whisper, that Francis thought he had imagined it at first. “… _Quoi_?”

Arthur sniffled, lifted his face for a minute to glare at the Frenchman through puffy eyelids. “Don’t mock me, wanker, you heard me.” The effect of the insult was lost on Francis as comprehension dawned on him. He pulled the Brit to him swiftly then, despite Arthur’s protests against it. He had pressed their lips together, silencing any protest Arthur might have, kissing him fervently, kissing across his face that was hot with tears and the bridge of his nose that drooled snot, whispering _‘je t’aime’_ over and over. Even the slightest hint that Arthur might love him, or at least not hate him as much as he always said, brought so much joy to Francis’ heart that he couldn’t contain himself. “Shut up, stupid, I don’t know what you’re saying.” Arthur’s protests had stopped. Tears were still falling, and Francis kissed those away too.

Eventually they both fell asleep, Arthur before Francis, in each other’s arms. When Francis had woken up, he was surprised to find Arthur still in his arms, even more surprised to find the other awake before him. Arthur had that soft smile he wore when he read, eyes crinkled up warmly. He had kissed Francis’ scruffy cheek, had whispered that he loved him, too. He had known what Francis was saying all along.

For awhile, they were happy. Arthur was this bright, shining joy in Francis’ life and every morning he couldn’t believe it when he saw the Brit’s ruffled blonde head on the pillow beside his. Centuries, Francis had kept this love locked away. For centuries Francis had harbored his love and it had finally, against all odds and expectations, been reciprocated. Arthur loved him, truly loved him. It was an unbelievable thought every time it crossed the Frenchman’s mind; he often found a sense of irony in the fact that the Country of Love couldn’t believe that someone loved him. But they were so happy. Days could be spent simply lounging quietly in each other’s company, each observing the other when they thought they weren’t looking. Nights were spent laughing in the kitchen or cuddling in bed, innocent kisses often resulting in wandering hands and when they had sex Francis made up for every bruise and hickey he’d ever left on Arthur by absolutely spoiling him. They were in love, and Francis couldn’t imagine a more blissful feeling in the entire world.

They were so happy when they picked up two little colonies, nearly identical in looks but one could not be more different from the other. One was loud, an exuberant, curious, happy child who laughed loudly and easily. They named him Alfred. The other was quiet, shy, and preferred his own company and imagination. His name was Matthew.

They both loved Alfred and Matthew immensely, but Francis could tell that Arthur favored Alfred. He saw it whenever Arthur would smile and, laughing, sweep the boy up into his arms and spin him. He saw it when Arthur would sing the boys to sleep or tell them stories of when he had sailed with the most fearsome pirates on the seven seas. Alfred, too, seemed to be drawn to Arthur more so than his Papa Francis.

Francis told himself that jealousy was irrational. Arthur loved Alfred and Matthew as much as Francis himself did, yes, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love Francis anymore. He was his husband.

Then came the day when Arthur had snapped at him when Francis had slid his arms around his waist.

He had jolted from Francis’ touch, glaring at the other. “What do you think you’re doing?” he’d said, making Francis feel particularly foolish.

“I just wanted to give you a hug, peach.” Francis had frowned. His action had been one that he had done many times before, one that had always been accepted with a small smile and sometimes even a peck on the cheek. “Is something wrong?”

Arthur blinked. “No. Why does something have to be wrong? Honestly, Francis.”

Alfred rushed into the room then, Matthew following behind with his stuffed polar bear in tow. “Arthuuur! Let’s play cops ‘n robbers! You an’ me can be the cops, okay? Mattie’s the robber!” he laughed. The two had given up trying to get Alfred to call Arthur anything besides his name; they’d tried every variation of ‘father’ there was: dad, pops, pop. For a time Francis had even tried to get the children to refer to Arthur as their mama, but only Matthew called him this. Alfred was insistent on calling Arthur by his name.

“I don’t want to be the robber!” Matthew protested quietly, brows furrowed.

Arthur had smiled as soon as Alfred had rushed through the kitchen doorway. “How about you and Matthew be the robbers and I’ll be the cop? That seems a fine compromise.”

Alfred shook his head vigorously. “No way! I wanna be a hero!”

Arthur had laughed at that, an easy laugh that was still so new for Francis to hear. He had never laughed like that before Alfred and Matthew. “Is that so? Well you and Matthew can be the cops then, and I’ll be the robber. Does that sound good to you?” Alfred had grinned widely, and both boys had chorused their ‘yes’, Matthew’s much more demure than Alfred’s. They’d raced off outside then, and Arthur had followed soon after. The children’s delighted shrieks and Arthur’s New Laughter drifted inside from the window. Francis was left alone in the kitchen, as though he were a ghost, merely an invisible spectator to a life that was not his.

Arthur snapping at Francis over the hug seemed to have been an isolated incident, and the Frenchman chalked it up to nerves or a lack of sleep because of the boys. It was hard to adjust to small children at first, it had to be that. Most days he was his normal self with his small smile and his quiet laughter. Most days were nice.

“Hm?” Arthur said dazedly, glancing at Francis for a second. “What was that?”

“I said,” Francis repeated slowly, “that I think you should reconsider. The tax, I mean.”

Arthur made a soft scoffing noise, turning his gaze back to the window where Alfred was outside, doing chores. He was older now, at that lanky awkward stage between child and adult. Around the same age Francis had been when he’d first met Arthur. “I can’t. The war is costing me too much, I have to get my money back somewhere. And anyway, I was much too lax on him as a child. Too many freedoms.” He waved a careless hand. “I get the feeling he thinks he’s entitled.”

“Arthur, his people are—“

“ _My_ people,” Arthur corrected, sending a sharp glare at Francis, one that the Frenchman was becoming ever more familiar with these days. War always did put a strain on their relationship. “They might live across the sea, but they are under _my_ rule and they serve the British royal crown.”

Arthur had always been very particular about things that were 'his'. Francis bit his tongue then, as his husband went back to staring out the window as Alfred raked the leaves in the yard, fanning himself with the hem of his shirt occasionally. Francis didn’t tell Arthur that murmurs of revolution were sweeping across colonial America, nor did he say that he’d heard from Matthew that Alfred was on the fence about it. He knew he was leaning towards the sway of his people, as most countries are wont to do. But he was merely a colony, not a country. Not yet.

As Alfred grew older, as he grew to be a handsome young man, Francis became more jealous than he had been before. He knew it was stupid, told himself it was completely irrational, but at times like this when Arthur was obviously barely sparing him any attention in favor of staring at Alfred outside, he knew it wasn’t so ridiculous as he tried to convince himself.

And he was angry. He grew to resent his son to some extent, though he knew it wasn’t his fault that Arthur loved him so much. He couldn’t reason with his heart even with that knowledge though, still resenting Alfred. It wasn’t fair, he thought. It had taken patient centuries for Arthur to love him, to smile at him, to spare him a laugh, and Alfred had achieved all of that effortlessly. Francis had had to fight tooth and nail to earn a place in Arthur’s heart and Alfred had just been awarded a place there with a bat of his eye. It just wasn’t fair.

So when Alfred decided he was going to become an independent nation, Francis helped him. He fought against Arthur for American independence because he wanted his husband to himself again. He wanted things to be like they had been before. So Alfred became independent, and his people named his country the United States of America. Arthur was brokenhearted, he was angry. He was hurt, and he took it out on Francis. Francis, who had helped. Francis, who had loved him and then betrayed him. He left, and he took Matthew. The bit of Canada that he'd had a claim to didn’t belong to France anymore and things weren’t like they used to be at all.

Things were different. But not really, Francis supposed. Not if he thought about them as being just the same as they had always been before. Arthur went back to hating him, though his hatred had taken a new form. Whenever he snapped at him in meetings, whenever they got into arguments, there was always a hateful jab that was meant to wound the Frenchman deeply. He tried not to rise to the Brit’s antagonism. He just laughed.

History was not kind to them. When the second Great War came about, France fell to Germany. Arthur had tried so hard to protect him, Francis thought with a sad smile. He shouldn’t have to protect him; it should have been him protecting Arthur. And he wondered why Arthur always tried so hard to protect him, though somehow maintained his hatred of the French and all things French, especially Francis himself. He wondered why Arthur would bother, and oftentimes came to the conclusion that it was only logical to do because of their geographical proximity; it was all merely strategy. But despite living many years and having seen many terrible things in his long life, Francis was still a romantic at heart and he thought maybe, maybe Arthur did still love him, in his own strange way.

Francis hated the Vichy government that was put in place after Germany occupied his beautiful country. He could practically see the strings attached to their limbs, mouths flapping open but saying and doing nothing.

He could do nothing as German planes flew over London every night, relentlessly bombing the city in an effort to brutalize England into giving up. He knew Arthur had to be in pain, and yet the Brit wouldn’t surrender. He was the last line of defense, the last hope of Europe, and he knew this. He wouldn’t give up even if it killed him, and that pained Francis that he could do that to himself. That he could do what Francis himself had failed to do, and in his failure, hoist all of this pressure and anguish upon the only man he’d ever really loved.

Arthur pleaded with Alfred to help him, to join the war and save Europe. “You’ll be the hero you always wanted to be,” he’d said once with a hollow laugh. Months of London under siege had taken away much of Arthur’s good humour. Alfred didn’t join the war for a long time. Francis didn’t think he ever would have if Tojo hadn’t had a successful mission at Pearl Harbor.

When France was liberated from German control, he wanted to cry from happiness. The entire country was singing. “What can I do, Arthur? Anything. Anything at all,” he had said. He had wanted to help, wanted to get back at those who had held him captive for so long, wanted to relieve some of the burden from the Brit’s weighted shoulders.

Arthur hadn’t even looked at him. For a minute, Francis didn’t know if he would even answer. “Stay out of the way,” he muttered. “You’ll just get caught in the middle again.” And then he had walked away, off to talk to Alfred about a collaboration on some air strike on Berlin.

It was a few weeks later when Arthur had seen the bruises. Francis had been in the middle of putting a shirt on when the Brit had walked in, saying something about diplomatic blah blah blah. He had stopped short when he saw the Frenchman. “What happened to you?” He sounded like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

Francis’ chest was covered in fading bruises, some more vivid than others. Most of them were speckled in big blotches around his ribs. He winced; he hadn’t meant for anyone to see.

Arthur walked right over, looking him over, carefully running his fingers over the bruises and pausing every time Francis sucked in a quiet breath. Arthur’s eyes were dark, mouth a grim line. And he left then, without another word. He settled the matter he had come in to discuss with Francis by himself.

Nothing had changed after that; Arthur barely talked to Francis unless he needed something. And when the war ended, when the Allies won, the only thing he spared amidst the cheering and absolute euphoric relief around them was a small fleeting smile from across the room. Francis caught that smile and kept it like a firefly in a jar because he knew it was all he would ever have.

The incident at the Nuremburg Trials had surprised him. Most involved parties were there: Alfred, Arthur, Ludwig, and Francis had gone as well as other Allied forces and nations. It had gone well enough for awhile, or as well as war trials could go. Alfred seemed weary, but Arthur seemed very tense. Francis was pretty tense himself; he didn’t like being in the same room as Germany. He kept his eyes to the ground for the majority of the trial, but he could feel cold blues staring at him. Somehow even with his scuffed up face and war torn uniform, Germany still managed to be an imposing presence. Maybe it was only Francis who was so affected; he could feel the smirk in that stare, though he kept his own eyes pointed to the ground.

And suddenly Arthur stood. He pushed his chair back, its wooden legs scraping against the ground noisily and disrupting the bored but even flow of Alfred’s voice. Everyone stared as the Brit strode purposefully across the floor to where Ludwig sat in his chair and grabbed the German by the lapel of his uniform, punching him square in the jaw. No one said anything as Arthur, still weakened from his own wounds, just kept punching. It seemed like everyone was too stunned to even move, including Germany himself.

Arthur threw him to the ground, kicking him hard in the side. Ludwig coughed, and Arthur kicked again. He seemed just about done, breathing hard as he surveyed the damages. Ludwig was fairly bloodied up on top of how ragged from the war he had already looked, but Arthur didn't seem satisfied with that. He spat at the ground beside the German’s cheek pressed against the floor. "Get up," he said poisonously. Ludwig stayed motionless, gaze locked on the Brit above him. Arthur huffed a taunting laugh. "Oh that's right, you haven't got any friends here do you? Not much to look at without them, are you? Not very scary." Again, Ludwig didn't respond. Arthur grew impatient, drawing his pistol and aiming it straight at the German's head. "Give me an excuse you filthy bastard. Move a fucking inch. You like leaving bruises well how about a bullet in kind?" His tone was almost cheerfully maniacal, and the rest of the room was frozen, unsure what to do. "I'll gut you if you ever lay a hand on him again," he muttered, something only Ludwig was supposed to hear but in the deafening silence of the room Francis had caught it, suddenly remembering that afternoon when Arthur had seen the marks that covered his body. Hot tears blurred the Frenchman’s vision. From shame, from a feeling that bubbled up that he couldn’t name at first. Happiness. Arthur cared. Arthur definitely loved him.

The only sound aside from Germany's labored breathing was the soft step of Alfred's shoes. Finally, action. Alfred came up and set a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Come on Arthur,” he murmured. “He’s not worth it. C’mon, we can continue tomorrow. Let’s get you a drink.” And Francis’ happiness sank because he saw. He saw how Arthur had relaxed almost as soon as Alfred had set his hand on his shoulder, the tension bleeding out of him.

“Right,” Arthur sighed, nodding as he allowed himself to be turned away from the crumpled form of a beaten Ludwig on the ground. He slowly put his pistol away. “Right, that sounds nice.” And Francis felt despair for them both as he watched Alfred lead Arthur from the room, trying to cheer him up and take his mind off the war trials by playing the fool.

Arthur had always loved Alfred, he had loved him from the moment he had set eyes on him. Did he still care for Francis? Of course he did, in that strange way he had. Francis had no doubts about that. Alfred had always loved Arthur as well, but even Francis could tell that it was not the same as how the Brit felt about him. It was then that Francis silently empathized with Arthur, because he knew what it was like to love someone for so many patient centuries just to have that love unrequited.

**Author's Note:**

> so you read a hetalia fic in 2018
> 
> thank you?? i'm honestly not expecting this to get many views, i'm posting this mostly because i thought the original fic wasn't completely unreadable and was worth salvaging.
> 
> there's a few other old fics i found on that flashdrive, so stay tuned maybe? for more refurbished hetalia fics.


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